Chapter 12

Dahlia .

Back in my room, I kicked off my shoes and unbuttoned my dress, letting out a sigh so deep, it probably reached the underworld. That tea party—if you could even call a gathering of Botox warriors and gossip ninjas a "tea party"—wasn't my scene. I needed a break from all the fake smiles and passive-aggressive compliments.

In search of solace, I wandered to the library and grabbed the first book that caught my eye. As I pulled it from the shelf, a manga decided it wanted to live dangerously and swan-dived onto the floor.

Curiosity piqued, I picked it up. One page in, and I was hooked. An assassin and a hitman from rival companies falling in love? Sold. I dove headfirst into the story, oblivious to time and reality, until the growing darkness outside and a shadow in the doorway yanked me back.

There he was, my husband, leaning casually like a model in a brooding husband catalog. His eyes drilled into me with the intensity of someone trying to remember if they left the stove on.

I shrugged and gave him a look that screamed, What now, Your Majesty?

"Time to eat," he said flatly. Honestly, I don't understand how he manages to look like a Greek god even when delivering lines with all the emotion of a rock. Lucky me, married to a handsome creep.

He didn't move, though. He just stood there, staring at me like a gecko sizing up a cricket. Was I the cricket? Probably. With an exaggerated eye roll that deserved its own Oscar, I set the manga aside. It was hard to put down—who wouldn't want to know if the assassin and the hitman survived the will-they-kill-or-kiss tension?

As I brushed past him, I felt his gaze burning a hole into my back. If he had laser vision, I'd be toast.

The dining room smelled like heaven had hired a personal chef. The aroma of spices wrapped around me like a warm hug. Without hesitation, I served myself some fried rice and beef stew, savoring each bite. Yet, my brain decided it was the perfect time to flashback to the tea party's tragic subplot. What was her name again? Vera? Varon? Vicky—Victoria.

Her words had stuck like gum on a shoe: "He was my mate, but he rejected me."

Mate. That word circled my brain like an annoying fruit fly. Did he ghost her? Was "mate" code for "ex"? Or was this some werewolf Tinder situation?

I glanced up and met his gaze, still locked on me like I was the final clue in a murder mystery. Finally, I decided to poke the bear.

"Who is Victoria?" I signed, keeping my expression neutral. Billie, my human translator-slash-peacekeeper, interpreted my question like a seasoned diplomat.

For a moment, his face twitched—just a flicker, but enough to let me know I'd struck a nerve. He slid into the chair across from me like a man preparing for battle.

"Victoria is an Alpha's daughter," he said, his expression flatter than a pancake.

"And what did she mean by you being her mate?" I signed, my curiosity now sprinting ahead of my common sense.

He exhaled, a long, dramatic sigh that could've been used in a soap opera. "In our world, mates are like soulmates. Predestined partners chosen by the moon goddess. Victoria was… assigned to me by fate, but I rejected her."

"Why?" I asked, leaning in like I was about to hear the secret of life.

"Because fate doesn't decide my life," he said, his voice as unyielding as stone. "I make my own choices."

I chewed on his words—literally and metaphorically—as I finished my meal. The idea of a predestined soulmate was equal parts romantic and terrifying. But the fact that he had essentially told fate to shove it? That was a twist I hadn't seen coming.

"Do you have any other questions?" he asked, his eyes as steady as a sniper's aim.

I shook my head, focusing back on my meal. There was so much I didn't understand about this world, but I knew one thing for sure: winging it while pretending I wasn't totally clueless was my current strategy.

Pulling out my phone, I typed a quick message: Still don't get it, but okay...

He caught the message, glancing at it with a sigh heavy enough to crush mountains. "Yes, I had to reject her. Otherwise, I couldn't have married you. And don't get me wrong, it wasn't a favor. She's married to Theo now," he said, his glare sharper than the knife I almost considered using on him for making things so awkward.

Before I could respond, a mental ambush blindsided me: a vivid flash of his naked body, all chiseled and annoyingly perfect. My cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree, and I ducked my head, pretending the rice was the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen. My pulse was doing laps.

Without another word, I stood and retreated to the library—my personal Switzerland in this war of emotions.

In the quiet sanctuary of books, I let out a shaky breath. Relief and anticipation tangled within me like two toddlers fighting over a toy. My spicy manga was still where I'd left it, the cover boldly featuring an assassin and hitman locked in a steamy stare-down. Grabbing it, I headed to my room for some much-needed distraction therapy.

Curled up on my bed, I let myself get pulled back into the story. Dane and Karla's star-crossed romance, equal parts swoon-worthy and life-threatening, was the perfect escape from my chaotic reality. But no matter how hard I tried, my thoughts kept detouring back to Victoria and the whole "fate" thing.

If Victoria was his destined partner, what did that make me?

The question gnawed at the edges of my mind like an overzealous hamster on a chew toy. I resolved to ask Billie later about this whole "mate" business, but for now, I surrendered to the manga.

Biting my nails, shivers racing down my spine, I hesitated before turning the page. Am I ready for this? Dane had just leapt in front of Karla, taking a bullet like a tragic hero straight out of a Shakespearean fever dream. Blood poured from him in horrifying detail.

Please, don't let him die, I begged the universe—or maybe the author, if they were listening. Dane had just proposed! I was finally rooting for these two after a whirlwind of betrayal, secret identities, and way too many cliffhangers. And now, just as they reached peak perfection—BAM! Drama grenade.

I turned the page, my heart in my throat.

And there it was. Dane died. Karla sobbed over his lifeless body, and I immediately dissolved into a puddle of despair.

"WHY?!" I screeched, flinging the book across the room with the flair of someone whose soul had just been personally attacked. "Why make me love him, only to yank him away like that?!"

Collapsing onto my bed, I bawled like I'd lost a lifelong friend. It was absurd. It was melodramatic. But it was also painfully real.

The room suddenly felt colder, emptier. Dane's fictional warmth had somehow leaked into my world, and now it was gone, leaving behind a gaping hole in my chest.

I sniffled, staring at the ceiling. "Stupid authors and their stupid emotional manipulation," I muttered, even as I mentally noted to find more work by this same author later.

Determined to shake off my grief, I threw myself into gardening. Nothing like some good old-fashioned dirt therapy. Pulling weeds and raking the soil gave my mind something else to focus on—other than the injustice of Dane's death.

The garden was a mess, overgrown and wild, but I could fix it. Dividing it into neat sections, I planned one for a seedbed and the others for carrots, beans, and onions. Old friends from my human realm garden. Familiar and comforting.

Despite its rust, the rake did its job, scraping away stubborn weeds. Each stroke of the tool felt like reclaiming control. Even the wilted roses and tired vines along the fence didn't discourage me. They just needed some TLC. I could almost hear Dane's voice in my head: You got this, Karla.

I chuckled. Maybe gardening wasn't just therapy; w it was my quiet way of keeping him alive.

Working in the garden was no walk in the park, especially since it hadn't seen a hint of care in years. Still, each patch of cleared weeds and each seed planted filled me with an odd sense of accomplishment. The rhythm of digging and watering helped organize my chaotic thoughts, sweeping away the lingering grief from the manga and replacing it with something solid, something real.

As the sun made its slow journey across the sky, casting long, shifting shadows, I felt a calmness settle over me. It wasn't just the physical effort—it was the connection with the earth, the grounding sensation of creating life from soil. By the time I finished, the garden wasn't just transformed—it felt alive. The seedbed was ready, the crop sections were neatly defined, and even the roses and vines on the fence seemed to stand a little taller.

I stood back, admiring my work, a small smile creeping onto my face. Maybe, just maybe, this garden could be my sanctuary—a little slice of peace in this foreign, chaotic world. A place where I could escape the loneliness and heartache.

With newfound energy, I cleaned up the tools and started towards the chateau, eager to share my garden plans with Billie. Maybe this was how I'd make this place feel more like home.

Pausing by the roses, I leaned in, squinting like an amateur botanist trying to spot some sign of life. A thorn promptly jabbed my finger as if to say, Not today, Sherlock. I sucked on the sting, muttering under my breath. Yep, time for a break.

Finding a bench nearby, I plopped down with all the grace of a deflated balloon. My thoughts meandered back to Dane from the manga. In real life, he'd probably be the kind of guy who makes an entrance in slow motion—tall, brooding, and with cheekbones that could cut glass. Ugh. Fictional men were the worst.

At some point, my eyelids betrayed me, and I drifted off.

When I woke, I was in my bed, blinking in confusion. Teleportation? Abduction? Nah, probably just my husband's dramatic idea of moving me.

Then the door burst open like something out of a soap opera, and there he was—my husband. His glare was colder than a polar vortex, his jaw set like he'd just walked off a "World's Angriest Man" magazine cover.

Without warning, he lunged at me, his hand wrapping tightly around my neck. "I warned you about that garden, you meddling insect!" he growled, his voice low and venomous.

I blinked up at him, unimpressed. "Oh no, the scary big bad wolf," I thought. Was it bravery? Stupidity? Probably a mix. He didn't frighten me the way he wanted—if anything, he just annoyed me.

He grumbled, releasing me with a shove. "Ugh, I hate you, human," he spat, stomping around like an angry toddler in designer shoes.

Unable to resist, I grabbed a pillow and launched it at him. Direct hit. He froze mid-stride, then slowly turned to glare at me, but before he could unleash his undoubtedly riveting monologue, Billie's calm demeanor sliced through the tension like butter.

"Sir, dinner is served."

I scrambled to my feet, ready to bolt for freedom, but my husband wasn't about to let me have the last word—or the last move. He casually stuck out his leg, and I went down like a sack of potatoes. The thud was loud, and so was my indignant gasp.

He smirked down at me, the smug jerk, and strolled out of the room like he'd just won an Olympic gold medal in pettiness.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, fuming. Oh, it's on, buddy. You don't even know what's coming.